


Gracilis

by calvairelier (hraundrac)



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Aged Up Characters of course but always good to specify, Impregnation Fantasy, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Snufkin has Vaginal Atrophy, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Vaginal Fingering, Yeah... look I know how bad that sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hraundrac/pseuds/calvairelier
Summary: Snufkin thinks too much, about where he belongs, what Moomin does to him, and what terrifying things he can and cannot have.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 85





	Gracilis

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I have to leave a disclaimer that I am a trans man, because this is dipping into territory that not everyone might take kindly to. And I am asking you to Please heed the tags and not read this if you are dysphoric.
> 
> If not, and if this is your thing, then enjoy! :)) Because this sure as hell killed me to write.
> 
> Also heads up, Snufkin does something stupid for all of 5 seconds near the end but it doesn't go anywhere. And no they've never heard of condoms.
> 
> Fic is titled after the superficial muscle on the inner side of the thigh. Yknow, the one you can see. Three years of anatomy classes and this is how I choose to use that knowledge... Hope my professors are proud.
> 
> (also haha 5[69]5 words)

There is love in a body. It is bigger than its shape. It exists in the synchronicity, the response, the unity and the conflict of it all.

There is love in a body. Snufkin knows this. He's seen it, felt it, heard it, tasted it in Moomintroll. Snufkin has to wonder if the love in himself overwhelms Moomin's senses in turn, for he acts in reverent composure.

Moomin traces his paw over him like something precious. His fingers are feathery, careful. They send tingles through him in their gentleness.

They're usually a spur of the moment, these things. Snufkin likes them unpredictable. Likes when they just happen naturally, two hearts and bodies wanting the same thing at the same time. There is magic in that.

Pressed to his bare side, Moomin nuzzles into his temple. Snufkin's twitching leg is hooked in the crook of his arm, fitting there like that's where it belongs. Moomin presses it down against Snufkin's stomach, folds him, holds it out of the way so he can reach under it and drag his paw against him, tangle in bristly fur, pull at soft giving flesh and open him. Physically, emotionally. Snufkin's heart could break under his care. But Moomin is too good to let it.

Snufkin turns away from Moomin's nose, buries half his face into his own shoulder to escape. He feels exposed in the stale air of the room, and he can't explain it. Among trees and meadows he is a venereal split, mirroring limbs like branches and fur like grasses. He is unconstrained to his body. He exists shamelessly as a part of the natural world, with all its vast and complex beauty and all its graphic, carnal design.

Indoors, he is different. Indoors, he is at odds with the order and the decorum. He is all pesky things that are vilified, like dust and crumbs and dirt. Anyone prissy would have swept him under the furniture. But Moomin exposes him to the space like lifting an old rug to all the grime. He runs his pristine fur through it and gathers it all up, breathes it in, takes it in as part of himself like a rebellion, and it makes Snufkin feel strangely loved.

He is the way in which Moomin misconducts; the way in which Moomin humbles himself. And in Moominhouse, it is allowed. Snufkin is allowed. Welcome, even. Him and all he brings. All he draws out of Moomin.

Snufkin is cherished defiantly of other homes and all their rules.

But Moominhouse is still in a house. With all its sturdiness and sharp corners, all its shields.

And in this place, Snufkin finds he has none of those himself. He is willing, rounded and pliable in Moomin's hold; cradled, kneaded and bent, worn into and shaped like pottery to accommodate the devotion that Moomintroll has for him.

He is the opposite to Moomintroll, who in here has all the things of a house. All the support, all the shelter. He is strong as he holds him wrapped up in his arms; solid in the way he pushes into him, parts him like an open book, makes him so very readable. And Moomin is enthralled still, even with how many times he's perused him.

His knowing fingers slide through that soft pressure, that resistance Snufkin ought to be maintaining. Instead, Snufkin pulls him in, lets Moomin dig deep inside him for all those vulnerable parts of him. Lets him stroke against the fine wrinkles in his person. The things he does not show to the rest of the world.

Snufkin is stretched thin and inflamed. But Moomin is oh so careful. He uses the pot of cream on the nightstand, pale beige, made by Moominamma out of the yams grown in the garden. There is twine tied around the lip of the jar, with a dried Baby's Breath stem tucked into it. It is deceptively decorative. And its contents are dense on his fingers, but smoother than butter. Snufkin has to use it regularly, so that he doesn't hurt. He'd call Moomin kind to do it for him, if he didn't know how much Moomin enjoyed it.

And enjoys it he does. Moomin rubs the cream into his walls as well as he can, caresses all the wrinkles tenderly. Snufkin knows the act to be gracious and amorous. Yet still he feels unclean.

If it weren't so dreadfully difficult to love openly, and be loved openly, perhaps Snufkin would know less shame in it. He is happy with himself, comfortable in his body, but the way Moomin adores him is something else, something overwhelming. It is a great, unrelenting hunger. Moomin consumes every inch of him with patience and reverence. And his desire feeds Snufkin too, in turn.

There is a void inside him now, something that did not exist before, a large empty space that Moomin has cultivated, and Snufkin thinks only he could build in it. It calls out to him in silent moments, lonely and starved, and Snufkin fears it terribly. He fears the way it draws him to Moomin; fears the way it makes him want to reach beyond his fur and melt into his skin; fears the way it makes him ever desperate for more.

But more than that, he fears how easy it is to think of letting Moomin populate that space. He hates how much he wants to bear something bigger than the both of them.

He hates how very real his love would be if he gave that love a face. And how very far he could run if he had to gaze upon it and know it for all the world as the culmination of a root.

And he, also, hates to think of being seen bearing it. He hates that loving in such a way cannot be private, that there are always people who want to know, and be there, and fuss. Or point, and judge, and think differently of him.

He could not have such a thing safely, could not contain its creation to the parts of the world that he trusts; could not hide in the tall grasses, curled under Moomin's nose for the rest of the year to let that love blossom and fruit.

As much as Snufkin cares for the other people in his life, there are often times when he wants no one but Moomin. To be alone with him brings him peace unlike any other.

But then again, he has to wonder, how peaceful could such a thing be with one as fretful as Moomintroll? He knows he wouldn't be able to help but worry, and bring up all those concerns Snufkin doesn't want to think about.

So Snufkin doesn't let him build the foundations for it. Doesn't let on that the space exists at all.

Moomin reaches for it but can never quite get to it. Snufkin knows what he needs, but he doesn't ask, would rather just ignore it, and let Moomin get close but not close enough.

At least that, he thinks, is a safer kind of gratification.

Moomin pulls his finger out and pushes it back in slowly and smoothly, like he's testing the waters, the ocean of Snufkin's body. A sounding line, he prods the depths of Snufkin love, and does it kindly. But there exists no need for hesitance, as Snufkin overflows around him like a high tide onto rocks. He tries to draw him into the abyss, and Moomin understands and follows.

He buries two fingers to the knuckle, firm but only so deep. The short fur of his fingers shifts with the movement, pulled flat and pushed opposite and the sensation is tickling and exciting. Moomin's fingers curl and Snufkin's toes copy the motion. His paws grasp onto Moomin's fur as he turns to face him, buries in his softness and warmth. Moomin presses kisses to his hair, strokes his back with the paw that holds him close.

"I love you," Moomintroll tells him. He says it oh so easily and oh so much. Snufkin's heart swells under the affection that cannot pass his throat. But his eyes lock onto Moomin's and it's enough. Every instance the same quiet acknowledgment and return.

Snufkin loves him. Moomin knows.

Snufkin's grateful to have him, he thinks. So affectionate and compassionate a troll. One couldn't find better. He didn't expect to find better. Didn't expect to find anyone, really.

Snufkin did not forsee a presence like Moomintroll in his life. He thought himself forever a lonesome wanderer, never drawn back anywhere, or to anyone. But then Moomin happened. Moomin became the pivot around which Snufkin rotates, the lighthouse that guides him, the magnet that pulls him in.

A home.

There is a home in Moomintroll. A home in Moominhouse, perhaps. One in Moominvalley, certainly. But Snufkin is not so oblivious as to think any of those stronger than the one Moomin holds in himself.

It is not a house, like the one they are presently in. It is something much more vast and free, and yet also much cozier. Moomin curls around his body and Snufkin finds himself where he belongs. Moomin enters through his door and brings the home to him. Like a tent turned inside out, it draws into itself, holds itself inside. It is beyond Snufkin's explanation.

And it's a home that seeks to see him happy and healthy above all else. So Moomin is meticulous in his task, massaging into him even though they both know most of the cream will end up leaking out of him, when he does it like this. It could have been an impersonal favour, if that was what they'd wanted, but from the get-go it was more than that. Moomin is too amorous to resist pleasing him.

So he takes care to draw it out of him with fingers pressing just right, and thumb rubbing on the outside, where Snufkin is a tangle of sensitive nerves. He tries to wear at him like water to a bank, or polishing a precious stone.

Snufkin's muscles liquefy, his bones sink heavy, his heart ready to burst. He feels worn, exhausted. He tried to keep his energy at first, until he realised it wasn't needed, and he could let himself go limp. Moomin is holding him and taking care of him. Snufkin just has to let go and relax into it.

The mattress conforms to his shape; the sheets and comforter bunch under him. The softness is almost too much for Snufkin. It's nice, but only for a short time. He is not meant for it. He's slept in the guest bed many a time, sleeps in Moomin's bed now, and as nice as it may be, these days his body begins to protest after a while. His spine and joints ache, his bones seek hard contact, uneven surfaces, the firm cushioning of soil.

He seeks a pleasant discomfort, one that reminds him that he is alive.

And so he's thankful that Moomin, though soft, holds the capacity to be firm, and he urges him to go harder. And Moomin, so caring it's almost infuriating, asks him if he's sure. And with his assurance, his pacing changes. A bit hesitantly at first, but it's so much better. It sends a tingle up Snufkin's spine, stirs the feeling in his groin, and when he squeezes his eyes shut and keens, Moomin grows confident.

He rams into him like a cautious boat against the quay. It is hard but steady, controlled but clumsy. He's scared to hurt him, it's obvious. But it's also obvious he wants to see him shake with it, rock against the sheets. He wants to convey the great intensity of his adoration, for Snufkin to succumb to. And so he hammers that passion into him.

And Snufkin's head tilts back, his mouth opens wide, choked of sounds and air, and his legs stretch down to his toes. It wracks through him like an earthquake, and sets his blood ablaze. Delight as uncontrollable as a disaster, he thinks himself dangerously and carelessly responsive. But he has to let it. He has to let it burn through him. Because it's wonderful, and he can't get enough, and he needs it, he needs it. It's slick and easy and Moomin is so good, so good, so loving, so strong. So strong. And filling, his fingers so wonderful, incomparable, perfect inside him. Like they belong, like they ought to always be. And why should Moomin ever leave his body? Why should Moomin ever let this end? Why, if not to bury in him again in another way, one far deeper, and thicker, and warmer—

And with that, Snufkin's back curls in, and he's tensing so tightly, and it detonates inside him. He loses focus as he shakes and clenches sporadically around Moomin's stilling digits, and the troll nuzzles his face and Snufkin struggles to breathe under the clench of his heart.

And then, like all things airborne, it comes back down and Snufkin releases all the energy in his body, and his lungs fill again. He feels overly sensitive to the brush of Moomin's fur on his heated skin as the troll showers him with affection.

"You did so good, Snufkin," he whispers, voice breathy like it's done him in too. And Snufkin doesn't know what Moomin's praising  _ him _ for when he's the one who put in all the effort.

But then again, that's fine, it works for them. Moomin likes to be helpful, and Snufkin likes to be a little lazy sometimes.

"Can you let me go?" Moomin chuckles, and Snufkin realises he's squeezed his thighs shut and locked his ankles around Moomin's wrist. He releases it, and Moomin pulls out of him uncomfortably. And Snufkin can't help but feel disappointed that it's over, but also relieved that he may now slink away and reflect on the worrying thought his jumbled mind went to just then.

Except Moomin doesn't roll from his side. His paw pushes between his still closed thighs and molds perfectly to one. He pulls his legs open again with the firmness but attentiveness that one uses for an old cabinet that has stuck but is too precious to damage. He nuzzles more quick, insistent kisses against the side of his face, and Snufkin feels cheated of an escape. Moomin refuses to let him hide or draw himself into a tightly curled ball. He pushes, not unkindly, for Snufkin to remain unravelled and receptive to his love.

There is an earnesty there. It is no trap, Snufkin's come to find. He could pull back if he really wanted to. But he doesn't really want to. There is something exhilarating about submitting to Moomintroll.

Like a creep leans into the offered palm, there is trust in Snufkin's action. An immense amount of trust. A trust still at times almost foreign for him to carry, even after this long and so much revelation that yes, he is allowed to trust that way, and be trusted in turn.

Yet still it feels exciting, if only because it is so much, and when he lets go like this it leaves him so open and Moomin looks at him like he holds all the world, and his eyes convey everything to him like a pool so clear and calm it appears as though air.

There truly is so much love there.

Curled just a bit around his smaller form, holding him like a basket in his arm, Moomin is enveloping, almost smothering, like the smell of bread in an oven wafting through a kitchen, or sticking one's nose over a boiling pot.

Moomin's fur tickles said nose, and Snufkin's lungs block, his breathing is unsteady, he forgets what he was thinking of, and he has to turn away again and take big gulps. And then Moomin is in his face once more, soft, warm snout, and his own hot, comparatively steady breathing blowing over him. In every part of it, their intimate act is a ceaseless push and pull. A drift and draw that they partake in with satisfaction.

And waves, they follow in succession. One always makes way for another. And Snufkin realises they are not, in fact, done.

"You don't look like you've had enough", Moomin teases him as if he isn't himself eager for more. Snufkin throws him a stern look, and Moomin laughs. "Oh, or have you? Silly me, let me just—" and Snufkin latches onto him before he can pull away further.

His arms around his neck, fingers buried into his fur, Snufkin brings him closer again and Moomin, already knowing what he wants, angles his snout up so they can press their lips together. They work against each other with soft pressure, open mouths, slow and adoring like the beat of butterfly wings when not in flight. Grounded. Snufkin feels present as he breathes raggedly into Moomin. And Moomin settles his weight back fully on the bed, assuring him he's not going anywhere any time soon.

And then he is caressing him where his legs meet again, lightly but with intent. And Snufkin, caught off guard, has to break the kiss with an "oh!" and thank the stars. It feels so good and bathes him in relief and brightness like a pleasant summer morning. Moomin is so kind. He drags and circles his paw against him equally happily, playing with the petals of his body.

It is beautiful, but it is, still, obscene.

The sound is deafening in the room now, without the buzzing in his ears. It is sodden and filthy, and Snufkin knows it's long run down him to the sheets, and they shall have to clean them thoroughly once this is all done. He misses wiping on the tickling grasses, vibrant green from the sun, and he misses the slightly spumous sheen left on the leaves marking their spot, and peeling them off when they cling to him. It is an odd little thing full of life. A sign that something has loved there, thrived, delighted. Energy expended. Snufkin feels it doesn't go to waste in that way. He gives back to the earth and trampled plants something of creation. If only it was truly that, in all the ways it means.

It's silly, but he imagines flowers, stuck in their own pheromonal titillation, may bend forward to praise them, were Moomintroll to act bee to bloom and sow in him. And Snufkin can always smell the sweetness when he pictures it, the fresh air, floral aroma, the honey bread on Moomin's fur, and that deep frolicsome essence right under his nose made of two bodies very winded.

That smell is familiar to him now, and comforting like cocoa. It lets him know he's wanted. And oh how Moomin wants him. Wants him enough to devote himself to him. Wants him enough that he would be overjoyed of Snufkin's dreams.

His body tenses under Moomin's paw, delighted in the thought, and dread floods him, cutting through softness of the moment.

Please, Snufkin begs of himself, almost desperate, don't think such things or he shall know. For Moomin always knows him best.

Snufkin cannot have this. He has to remind himself over and over of all the things scary about it that far outweigh the good.

He forgets and slips anyway, because that void holds more over him than he would have thought, and it still cries out for small paws and an even smaller heartbeat.

And that causes something to catch in his airways. And Moomin, predictably, notices, and stills.

"Are you alright? Do you want to stop?"

"No!" Snufkin blurts out, and folds inward to keep him there, once more. "No… I'm fine. Better than fine, I'm… I'm very good." And then, because it's true, and because Snufkin loves to sing him praises: "You're very wonderful."

And Moomim's ears wiggle happily, successfully distracted from Snufkin's turmoil. He kisses him as he picks the pace back up. 

And Snufkin is left focusing on his breathing, trying to squash his thoughts down as his mind and body betray him, leaky and burning. Moomintroll groans appreciatively at his state, unaware of its shameful cause, and teases the entranceway it spills from with light and parting fingers. But he does not breach him, or offer the same vigor so soon, as Snufkin is fragile there. For as much as he may think himself resilient, even he knows it to be true. It's the result of contradiction, and his fortune in how his body balanced it.

But all beings hold contradictions in them. Snufkin just a little more than most. And as a small price for being himself, he does not mind it in the least. And Moomin's there for him anyway, with a pawful of cream and gentleness.

Just not there as Snufkin would want him, perhaps. That's another divergence about him, that he wants such a thing at all when it should repulse him. But he's never been one for  _ shoulds _ , and he doesn't see why it would make him any less a man. It's only an option nature has granted him. An option he considers taking far too often.

But he mustn't think of it further. He's slipping again. Which is terribly rude, when Moomin is being so good to him. So giving. Hearty like a good soup.

...Soup… Snufkin thinks he could really go for some soup. All this love makes him hungry in more ways than one. Ravenous, even. Not the kind of hunger he is used to bearing through, during harsh winters. But the kind of hunger that knows what it needs is within reach, so it itches insistently, distracts him, and makes him unable to accomplish anything else.

Snufkin always finds what he looks for in Moominhouse.

It is a large gift, to be allowed at a full table. Even if Snufkin does not sit there. Everyone understands that the couch under the window is an extension of that table. Just out of reach, but it means the same.

Snufkin likes it like that, he supposes, to be out of reach. For others to come after him, instead of the other way around.

But sometimes he can't sit on the couch. Sometimes he has to bear the close quarters and the many many people, and all the activity of a crowd compelled by music and drink.

But Moomin always sweetens the deal. Snufkin wouldn't stay longer than an hour otherwise. And the troll doesn't even have to do anything, it's enough that he is there, letting Snufkin seek safety in him, giving him his company. But he does do things, anyway. Things like little promises, a stolen bottle of wine or a cake in a napkin, coffee in the morning and paws for his aching temples. Or paws like this.

Snufkin doesn't have a preference. He sees through to the meaning in all of them, now. But he does like this. Very much so.

He's too ashamed to say it, though he doesn't really need to. He's scared of getting it wrong, he supposes, of assuming, or demanding.

Moomintroll is kind and giving, and Snufkin has to ask himself the terrible questions: how much can he take, and how much of that love will he waste?

Desire can be a terrible thing. To admit that he craves in his own time... To admit that he wants the open nest of a chest to settle in, and leave when it's all done.

But sometimes Moomin will laugh low, lift something heavy, say something silly, graze his fur against him, lean in too close, press his snout to his lips too long… and Snufkin wants to tell him in words and not only in body: "I need you. Like a fish needs water, like a man in the cold needs a spark for his fire." Desperately.

Instead, Moomin will ask "Could I touch you? or "Do you want me?" "Could I have you?" "Will you let me?"

And Snufkin can only say yes, no, or later. Because to say more is to say that it isn't simple. That it isn't a matter of passing time, or just entertaining themselves. That Snufkin has feelings about it.

Feelings that swim ceaselessly around his head. Moomin pulls him back out of there with a particularly good swipe, and Snufkin realises he's zoned out again despite himself.

He rolls his hips into a different rhythm, one that keeps him more present, and Moomin obediently responds. It sends sensations that coil slowly in Snufkin's body, and he rubs his face into Moomin's snout like he's trying to wipe the haze away. Moomin chuckles happily and nuzzles back, and it works. Snufkin forgets everything but the then and there.

He whispers another praise, honey on his tongue, and Moomin returns one of his own, until they're both murmuring sweet nothings to each other, back and forth. And Moomin keeps working over him slowly until Snufkin finishes.

It washes over him smoothly, easy and peaceful, near imperceptible. Still he knows Moomin feels him jellyfish against his fingers, muscles acting of their own accord. And so Moomin draws away almost instantly, too soon, clearly playful, and he stares adoringly at Snufkin's face as he lies splayed and still and breathing. It is a torturous reprieve.

Moomin places his sticky paw against his shaky ribcage, pulls Snufkin closer into his side, brushes his thumb against the thin, soft scar tissue on his chest and feels how the muscle underneath forms an indent, how it gives the way Snufkin does.

And then, once he knows he has stilled and gone lax, he twirls his fingers into Snufkin's line of fur all the way back down between his legs and drags up against him and Snufkin goes tense all over again, so quickly, and so much more intensely.

Moomin brushes his fingers over his slit, mumbles a vague question into his neck and Snufkin answers "yes. yes…" and then Moomin's breaching him again, all at once. There is no hesitance left. His fingers start to move nearly in time with his pulse, it is first steady, almost lulling. It feels like the rocking of waves. It is just another way that Moomin reignites the red hot hearth within him and fills him with comfort and warmth.

He is still sensitive and strung tight, and terribly, terribly soaked, and Moomin quickens gradually, until he is pounding into him ardently, wracking the tired bones that frame their connection. Unrestrained, Snufkin's whines and moans join the orchestra of their passion as he meets Moomintroll's motions. He's not usually one for sounds, but he is worked up to the point that he's forgotten himself, and he can't come to mind it anymore. Just as he no longer minds Moomin's persistence in entering his space, his thoughts, his heart, his body.

It takes Snufkin no time at all to reach his peak again, and it hits him so strongly he feels as though he's lost in a raging sea. He breaks the surface with a big choking gasp and tremor, then goes under again, pressing his paw tightly to his mouth as he bucks desperately, inhales deeply once more, and then shudders a final time.

And as the aftershocks run through him, Moomin kisses him. And he traces the quaking line of muscle that protrudes on the inside of his thigh with wet fingers and the same adoration he's traced every other part of him, and Snufkin knows it then.

The ocean of Moomin's love is vast and terrifying, but admirable. He will either drown in it one day, or finally let the waves take him forward to a new chapter of their lives.

But for now, there is no need for such motion. And so he takes his time to steady his body, and refocus on his surroundings, and the calm silence and—

And the excruciating need he can feel emanating from Moomintroll.

For it's not only Snufkin who has desires, and it's not the first time he has sensed the tension in the air between them, when Moomin wants inside him differently. He knows it's not just that he's worked up. It's stronger than that, full of an unplaceable emotion that crawls over Snufkin's skin and seeks the part of him that wants it too.

But Moomin would never ask for  _ this  _ either. He may not know of Snufkin's turmoil, but he knows of his boundaries. Snufkin is fascinated by the way Moomin has grown to know him. So natural is his understanding, that Snufkin has become almost an extension of himself. Part of him, as Moomin would have him be. 

And vice-versa, Snufkin understands him too. And understands that he is needing.

He tries to lift himself up on shaky arms so he may crawl to the foot of the bed and help him as he's done many times before, hand and mouth, but Moomin's paw flattens over his chest and pushes him back down.

"Relax. You don't have to do anything." And Snufkin complies, because he's tired and worn to the bone. So he shifts to get comfortable in Moomin's arm, which tightens around him as he settles with his back to the troll's chest.

And, with gilded heart, Moomin takes himself in paw, tacking damp fingers on heated flesh. And Snufkin, feeling the drag of knuckles against his lower back, the soft exhales on his neck, wonders how painful it must be, to put oneself aside for another, and wait. And wait and wait, and find indulgence in their own joy and not one's own. And ache red so very long.

Snufkin has only ever experienced that in short bursts. Nothing like Moomin, who seems used to it now. Happy with it, even.

Moomin rocks behind him with soft groans. He squeezes around Snufkin's waist, runs fingers that thrum with affection over his skin. Moomin revels in his proximity in the same way he always does, sat with him in comfortable silence. "It's a gift in itself just to be close to you," Moomin has told him before. And Snufkin feels the same way.

On impulse, a closed door opens up and Snufkin feels it, strange and unfamiliar. Reckless bravery washes over him. He thinks of slotting pieces, of a curve in his stomach. He thinks of pooling seafoam, and warmth. And so he runs with it, because he doesn't know the chances, doesn't know what cards are in his favour.

Snufkin reaches behind him, wraps a paw around Moomin and angles him closer. He shivers as he presses the weeping head against his entrance. Just a suggestion. Moomin goes still as stone, unbreathing.

Snufkin rubs it against himself. It's slick, it slips, he doesn't have the heart to line it up well enough to even consider taking it. It slides between his folds, nestled, and Snufkin wonders if that's love enough. He ruts once against its length. Then his breath breaks terribly and he releases, hiding away in the sheets. Because he can't. He can't. It's much too terrifying and he's not ready yet and he doesn't know when he will be, if he will be.

Moomin, loving Moomin, runs his paws soothingly over his stomach and kisses all over the back of his neck, head, his ear. ' _ It's okay _ ,' he conveys, in the only way one can say it when the air weighs too heavy for words.

This troll is always too patient, Snufkin thinks. He shall make him wait forever, for things others do not. But he won't resent him, he knows. Won't even let himself wish too hard for these things. Moomin doesn't expect anything, doesn't put anything before Snufkin's safety and comfort. Doesn't build empty hope on shifting ground.

He's almost too good for him.

Or Snufkin says that, but he can't imagine not having Moomintroll anymore. He's not one for possessions, but this he holds close to his heart. Like all the shells and rocks and feathers Moomin has gifted him that sit in the inside pocket of his pack, Snufkin makes the exception for him. And that's alright. It's alright because it goes both ways. He doesn't own Moomintroll, but Moomintroll is his. Moomintroll doesn't own Snufkin, but Snufkin is his.

He's given in so easily to being someone's. Hard by anyone else's standards maybe, but easily compared to what Snufkin had expected for himself.

A troll so remarkable makes it easy.

So he laces his fingers with Moomin's dry ones on his stomach, and the troll kisses his ear once more, waits a beat, and then rolls onto his back. And Snufkin is grateful for the further separation, and the fact that he can't see or feel it now except in the way the weight on the mattress shifts as Moomin bucks with abandon; the way the bed groans and creaks beneath them. The way Snufkin moves with it too.

Well, he supposes that's not much better, then. But Snufkin blocks out his thoughts, and pictures the ocean again.

And then finally, the weight on the bed rises slightly, and Moomin finishes with a strangled cry of Snufkin's name, and Snufkin murmurs his in response, and builds up a purr.

Moomin drops back down like a large stone, and breathes again, and Snufkin turns and latches onto his side.

And as he pets the soft fur of his chest, he looks over Moomintroll, spent and melting into the duvet. Snufkin's stomach coils pleasantly at seeing him content. His body heats and cries "don't you love the sight? Wouldn't you want to bring him there in the way that you've denied yourself? To climb onto him, squeeze his warmth into yourself, and curl upon his stomach after?"

So Snufkin takes Moomin's paw and licks it clean. Because for now that's all he can do about things like fruit pits and honey, and things that belong someplace else by nature.

And as he locks eyes with a flustered Moomintroll, he thinks perhaps someday that will change.


End file.
